


seeing stars

by keijibeam



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, M/M, could be platonic or romantic w/e u want :), fukurodani being rascals, genuinely do not know what to tag this, minor washikono
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:40:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27474409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keijibeam/pseuds/keijibeam
Summary: “Poetry is a form of expression that typically utilizes metaphors. It can be as simple or complex as you wish,” Akaashi explained. “It’s entirely subjective, much like any other form of expression. It only has to make sense to you, the author. Sometimes, it doesn’t even make sense to the author. Are you following?”A frown creased Koutarou’s brow. “No, not at all.”--bokuto learns about poetry
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 16
Kudos: 84





	seeing stars

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is partly inspired by [this bkak fanart](https://twitter.com/fiendishpal/status/1313148692375846912) by fiendishpal on twitter. i love all of their art so much but this one just stuck out to me so ty fiend for makin cute bkaks all the dang time
> 
> some notes on japanese poetry (specifically _waka_ , a type of poetry in classical jpn literature):
> 
>  **on** : phonetic units, similar to syllabic units in english (japanese and english are written and read entirely differently so it's not _exactly_ the same, but similar enough)
> 
>  **katauta** : a 3-line unrhymed poem that is written in a 5-7-5 or 5-7-7 format
> 
>  **sedōka** : a poem made of a pair of _katauta_ written in 5-7-7
> 
>  **sōmonka** : a _sedōka_ written between two lovers; each _katauta_ is written by either partner
> 
>  _on_ and _sōmonka_ are the only terms referenced in this fic, but the rest of the info might give context or sth? idk just wanted to share :)

The sun had finally made its arrival. Winter had done its best to hold on, biting the cheeks of students as they rushed through the gates. The spring sun teased the students of Fukurodani Academy, warming their faces just enough to shed their scarfs, shining through the dew in the grass, through the raindrops on the trees, all in an attempt to warm the concrete grounds of the school. Sunlight reflected inside from the windows, but the glass was still cold. Koutarou felt winter’s refusal to admit defeat in the window pane as he pressed his cheek against it, sighing as he watched scarfless students run from the school in delight.

He sighed because he wanted to be outside, because he wanted to play volleyball, because he wanted to play with his friends, because he wanted to do anything besides sit in the school’s library on a day off from practice.

“You don’t have to be here, you know.” Akaashi’s head was bowed over a textbook, his eyes peered up at Koutarou. “I can study on my own, but it doesn’t seem like you’ll be able to get anything done today, Bokuto-san.”

With a huff, he pulled himself away from the window and returned to their table. “I can get _something_ done,” he muttered, staring at the book in front of him. It was a literary textbook open to the section on poetry. Koutarou stared at it and the urge to sigh came over him again. He looked up at Akaashi instead, who was rubbing at his eyes. “Allergies bothering you?”

“Yes, I believe so. It seems the spring brings more than just sunshine.” 

“Yeah, but at least it’s getting warmer,” Koutarou said. He tried to resist the urge to look out the window again, in fear of being scolded by Akaashi. The thought of looking at his textbook was equally frightening.

“What are you studying?” Akaashi asked. He was taking pity on Koutarou, acting interested to encourage him to be interested, too. He lifted the book and Akaashi tilted his head to read the chapter title. “Poetry? How wonderful. I can recommend some of my favorite poems and poets to you, Bokuto-san, if you’re interested.”

Koutarou declined with a shake of his head. “This isn’t for fun, Akaashi! This is serious business.”

“Oh? I never thought you would consider schoolwork to be ‘ _serious business_.’”

“This is different.” Koutarou paused for emphasis. Akaashi raised his eyebrows in question. “This is to gain something.”

“Don’t you gain good grades from schoolwork?”

Koutarou closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his forehead. “Honestly, Akaashi. Don’t you know how unimportant schoolwork is, in the grand scheme of things? I’m talking about something _really_ important. I’m talking about the most important thing! The source of life itself!”

“...Sunlight?” Akaashi guessed with a shrug.

“Food!” Koutarou slammed his palm onto the table. “Food, Akaashi! This is for free food!”

“I see why you’re so excited.” Akaashi nodded an apology to the students nearest to them before continuing. “Would you like to tell me more about these circumstances in which studying poetry will help you to obtain the source of all life?”

“It’s a competition,” Koutarou explained. “Our homeroom teacher set it up. She said to celebrate the coming of spring, we should all hone our poetry skills.”

“Japanese poetry does rely heavily on seasonal motifs,” Akaashi said. “I can see her thought process.”

“And the day after tomorrow, we have to recite our poems in front of class! Then the class will vote and decide on the winner.”

“What's the grand prize? A month's supply of ramen?”

“No, but that would be pretty good too! The prize is two coupons, for one meal each, at a place called...umm...Yado...Yadoro? Yadoro -- “

A slamming noise erupted from their table as Akaashi’s chair flew back and hit the floor. He stood, staring bug-eyed at Koutarou, who was impressed to see his eyes open so wide.

“Yadoroku?” Akaashi whispered.

“Oh, yeah! That was it! I think it’s an onigiri place -- “

“It’s _the_ onigiri place, Bokuto-san. The oldest one in Tokyo. They don’t have coupons, I've checked. How did your teacher acquire them?”

“Uhh, I think she’s family? Like, a cousin or something. Or she’s married to a cousin. Or was. I didn’t really pay attention to that part.”

Akaashi closed his eyes then and brought his hands together in front of him. He took a deep breath, releasing the air slowly. When he opened his eyes, it was to look at Koutarou.

“I apologize, Bokuto-san. You were right: I underestimated the severity of the situation.” The students from before glared at them. Akaashi turned and gave them a short bow before he picked his chair up. He gathered all of his things in his arms, walked around to Bokuto’s side of the table, and set them down again. “I'd be happy to help you achieve this goal, Bokuto-san, if you would allow me.”

“Wow, really?!” Koutarou hadn’t planned on asking Akaashi for help, but he was relieved at the offer. Akaashi had always been good at schoolwork.

“Maybe, if I did so, you would consider sharing your prize with me?”

“Who else would I have shared it with, Akaashi? It was always going to be you!”

Akaashi smiled at him and Koutarou felt the last dregs of winter evaporate.

  
  


***

  
  


“Poetry is a form of expression that typically utilizes metaphors. It can be as simple or complex as you wish,” Akaashi explained. “It’s entirely subjective, much like any other form of expression. It only has to make sense to you, the author. Sometimes, it doesn’t even make sense to the author. Are you following?”

A frown creased Koutarou’s brow. “No, not at all.”

“You can’t be so vague about it, Akaashi,” Saru, another literary enthusiast, said. “Listen, Bokuto, Japanese poetry is all about fives and sevens. It’s all in the same pattern: five _on_ , then seven, then five again, or five-seven-seven. Just stick to either of those patterns.”

“Five-seven-five,” Koutarou repeated. “Except when it’s five-seven-seven.”

“It’s not quite that simple,” Akaashi chided.

Saru shrugged. “If you want Bokuto to get it, it has to be.”

Akaashi let out a tuft of air through his nose in near-silent defeat. In his head, Koutarou repeated what Saru had taught him: _five-seven-five, five-seven-five, except when it’s five-seven-seven_.

“Look at how hard Bokuto is concentrating!” Konoha scoffed. He was a few steps ahead of them, walking backwards and pointing a derisive finger at Koutarou. “I haven’t seen his face look that serious since before he got the hang of his line shot.”

“Argh! Is it really that weird?!” Koutarou pressed his hands against the sides of his face, pushing the meat of his cheeks up until his vision was completely obscured.

“It isn’t weird at all, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi reached up, pulling Koutarou’s hands away from his cheeks and placing them back at his side. “You should be proud to work so hard for something.”

“Akaasi has to say that because he’s Akaashi, but I, your true friend, would never lie to you. You look like a total nerd.” Konoha pulled his mocking finger away to turn a thumb towards Washio, who was walking at his side but faced the correct way. “Washio’s gonna crush you, anyway. Don’t try too hard or you’ll only be that much more disappointed when he does.”

“ _Washio_ ? Beat _me_?!” Koutarou balked. “He’s a great middle blocker, but -- “

“This isn’t about volleyball,” Konoha reminded him. “Washio’s always been better at school than you.”

Konoha was right. Washio got better grades than him, even if they were only _barely_ better. He clenched his hands into fists at his side. Then he unclenched them, then he clenched them again, then he settled on shoving them in his pockets. A strange feeling had spread through his hands, a warm feeling like the sun fervently beating down on your skin in the middle of August. But it was only the beginning of spring, and his hands had only started feeling like that when Akaashi had touched them. When he looked to his side and saw Akaashi, he remembered the warm smile he had given him and the promise they’d made, and repeated his new mantra to himself: _five-seven-five, five-seven-five, except when it’s five-seven-seven._

“Don’t pay them any mind, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi pulled his backpack in front of him and began to dig through it. A black notebook appeared, one that Koutarou recognized as Akaashi’s fitness journal. After opening it to a bookmarked page, he began to recite from it.

“ _Coolness of the melons  
__flecked with mud  
__in the morning dew_.”

He looked up at Koutarou, who stared blankly at him. “Well? Did that make you feel anything?”

“Uh...I’d like some fruit, I guess?”

Akaashi hummed and flipped to another page.

“ _The old pond --  
__a frog jumps in  
__sound of water_.”

He looked at Koutarou expectantly, who only shrugged.

“Do you wanna go fishing, Akaashi?”

With a huff, Akaashi turned the page again, searching through his journal.

“Matsuo Basho, right?” Saru asked.

Akaashi turned to Saru and gave him a small smile. “Well done, Sarukui-san.”

“Isn’t your senpai a literary genius?” Saru said, nudging Akaashi with his elbow.

“I don't know if I would go that far, Sarukui-san.”

Before Saru could respond, Bokuto asked, “you keep poetry in your fitness journal?”

“I keep various notes inside…that includes poems I find inspiring or otherwise enjoy. I copy them down so I can look them up when I feel the need to. Don’t you do the same, Bokuto-san? Keep track of things that inspire you?”

Koutarou did keep a similar journal filled with notes about exercise, diet, stats from games, notes from practice matches, and, as Akaashi implied, in the back he kept notes that inspired him. Stats of his favorite players, scores from their best (and worst) games, and stats about rival schools, including the other top aces in the country. Akaashi knew so well about the contents of his notebook because he was usually the one who reminded Koutarou to record what went inside of it.

“Why not just keep that kind of thing saved on your phone?” Konoha asked. “Wouldn’t that be easier than hand-writing every poem you like?”

Akaashi sucked his teeth at the suggestion. “Literature can’t be expressed properly through a screen,” he reproached. “The physical feeling of it in your hands is an important aspect of the full experience.”

“You’re such a purist, Akaashi,” Saru laughed. “No matter what you have written in your notebook, I don’t think that’s going to help Bokuto. He’s too tactile, and not because he has to touch the books he reads. Right, Bokuto?”

“Sure!” Koutarou whispered to Akaashi, “what’s ‘tactile?’”

“It means you rely on touch.”

“Oh! Wait, doesn’t everybody do that?”

“To some extent, but you do so a little more than usual,” Saru said. “That’s why once we get to practice, that will be all the inspiration you need. You just need to get on the court! Let the ball inspire you!”

Koutarou balled his fists and held them up against his chest. He could already feel the inspiration surge through him just from thinking about spiking the ball. “You’re right, Saru! I just need to play volleyball.”

“I suppose that’s one source of inspiration.” Akaashi sounded disappointed as he put his notebook away. Koutarou put an arm around him and pulled him against his side.

“Don’t worry, Akaashi, this will definitely work!”

“I'm sure it will inspire you, but it’s not gonna be enough to beat Washio!” Konoha snorted, took a step back, and tripped. Washio caught him before he hit the ground and glared down at Konoha’s sheepish expression before he pulled him back up, and the five of them continued walking to the gym.

  
  


***

  
  


After practice, Koutarou stood in the center of the locker room, his legs outstretched, hands on his hips, and eyes shut in concentration. The poem was due tomorrow, but he hadn’t found his inspiration yet. He was trying to gather energy, inspiration, anything he could muster, he wanted to collect all of it. If there was anything in the gym that could help him, he wanted to take note of it.

“Is that helping?” Akaashi asked.

“I don’t know yet. Nothing’s happened.”

“I see.”

Koutarou took a deep breath, then expelled the air from his chest loudly. “I'm not sure this is working.

“Maybe you should try a different tactic, Bokuto-san. Try sitting down and writing whatever comes to mind.”

Koutarou grimaced. “Akaashi, that sounds...boring.”

From around the lockers, a wing spiker from Akaashi’s year poked his head out. “Bokuto-senpai?”

Koutarou perked at the honorific. “Shima! What did you need from your senpai?”

Shima bounced out from behind the lockers and bounded up to Bokuto. “That super cross shot you did today was so cool! Can you teach me how to do it?”

Koutarou threw his head back confidently and laughed. “Oh, that? Of course I can teach you!” He raised his hand in the air and swiped at an imaginary ball. “So normally, when you spike, it’s like ‘ _GAH!_ ’ right? But with the super cross shot, it’s more like ‘ _BWAH!_ ’” He swiped his hand through the air again, this time at a slightly different angle.

“Oh! So it’s like, BWAH but not GAH?” Shima said, imitating Bokuto’s movements.

“Yeah, but with a little more...Pah!”

The two of them stood in the middle of the locker room, hitting imaginary volleyballs and shouting exclamations. The few members left in the locker room watched them with scorn and curiosity.

“Bah and gwah? What are you talking about?” Konoha asked. “Akaashi, tell him that’s no way to explain volleyball.”

“Actually, I think it’s quite a poetic way of describing things,” Akaashi said. “Maybe you have more inspiration in you than you realized, Bokuto-san.”

Poetic? Him?

Shima thanked him, left, and eventually Koutarou was the only one left in the locker room. The rest of the team had either left or were still showering. Remembering Akaashi’s suggestion, he sat down on the bench in front of his locker and pulled his own fitness journal along with a pencil. In the back, on a random empty page, he repeated his mantra and wrote down the first thing that came to him.

 _baw gwah pah bwuh guh!  
_ _the ball soars over the net  
_ _a super cross shot!_

He counted the _on_. It matched the standard that Saru had given him, but something was still off. It wasn’t quite like the poems Akaashi had read to him.

On the other side of the aisle was Akaashi’s locker. His bag sat on the bench in front of it and his journal laid nearby. Koutarou stood, crossed the aisle, and sat on the opposite bench, picking up the notebook and opening it to the bookmarked page Akaashi had read from earlier. The frog haiku stared back at Bokuto. He frowned at it.

“Caught you!”

Koutarou jumped up and saw Komi smirking at him from the other end of the aisle. Saru came around the corner a moment later. When he saw Koutarou, he held his hand over his mouth in mock surprise.

“Is that Akaashi’s notebook you’re looking through?” Saru shook his head disapprovingly.

“It’s fine!” Koutarou assured them. “Akaashi shows it to me all the time! We always share our journals with each other.”

“And yet you didn’t realize he kept poetry inside of it until today?”

“Well, I haven’t seen every single page...but I've seen most of it!”

Saru and Komi were smirking as they sat down on either side of him and peered over his shoulders at the notebook in his hands. He ignored them as he flipped through the book, looking for any poems Akaashi hadn’t already read to him. They were all copied down in ink in Akaashi’s neat handwriting.

“Akaashi really likes haikus, huh? And even after he tried to scold me for teaching you poetry is all about fives and sevens…”

“He thinks it’s the pinnacle of Japanese poetry,” Koutarou explained, “but there’s always more to it with Akaashi. He just likes to be inclusive of every aspect.”

“Aspect? Inclusivity? _Pinnacle_?” Saru raised an eyebrow at him. “You know what all those words mean?”

Koutarou grinned and held the notebook up. “No, Akaashi wrote all that in the margins. See?”

Saru squinted at the margin notes. “So he really did...”

Komi pulled the notebook so it was in front of all three of them again and read a poem from it.

“ _A mountain village  
__under the piled-up snow  
__the sound of water_.”

“Hmm...Masaoka Shiki?” Saru guessed.

“Beats me,” Koutarou shrugged. He turned the page and read another poem aloud

“ _Blowing stones  
__along the road on Mount Asama,  
__the autumn wind._ ”

“Matsuo Basho again? Akaashi sure does have his favorites.”

“Here’s one that’s not a haiku,” Komi said, flipping to a new page.

“ _Rock-running,  
__The cataracts, and beside them  
__Flower-fern  
__Has put forth shoots: spring  
__Is here, indeed!_ ”

“Prince Shiki! It’s from the Man'yoshu,” Saru said with a confident grin. “And seasonally-appropriate.”

“You’re good at this, Saru!” Koutarou said. He had opened Akaashi’s notebook to find inspiration for himself, but now he was on a different mission. A mission to stump Saru. Page after page was skipped over as he looked for the right poem to outwit him. His attention was caught by a poem written in pencil; the light color of lead stood out among all of the dark blue and black ink. He chose this poem next and read it aloud. After he did so, Saru sat in silence and chewed his lip thoughtfully.

“That’s awfully romantic-sounding, isn’t it?” Komi asked. “Who knew Akaashi would like such sappy poetry.”

“All poetry is sappy,” Saru said. “It’s not that surprising. But this...it _could_ be the beginning of a _somonka_ .” Komi and Koutarou exchanged a look of ‘ _I don’t know what that means_ ’ before they turned to Saru. “It’s two smaller poems,” he explained, “that make up a larger one. See, this one is five-seven-seven. It’s the first half. If there was another poem below, following the same structure, it would be a _somonka_.”

“Okay, great,” Komi said. “Does it matter what type of poem it is? You still don’t know who wrote it.”

Saru narrowed his eyes at him. “It matters because somonkas are _love_ poems. Each half is written by either partner.”

“Ooh, so it _is_ romantic!”

As Komi and Saru gossiped about what type of poem it was, Koutarou read the poem over and over again. Reading it gave him an unsettled feeling, like there was something hidden just out of range. The title alone, _molten gold_ , made his heart clench and forced him to swallow. Every inch of his body itched more and more each time he read it, but he couldn’t stop himself. What finally pulled his attention away was the figure that stood in front of him, staring down at the three of them.

“Is there a reason you’ve congregated in front of my locker?” Akaashi asked. His glasses were perched on his nose, Koutarou noticed. O _h, his allergies_. His contacts must have been irritating him. The idle fleeting thought that when Akaashi had his glasses on, Koutarou couldn’t see his eyes as well, made him feel slightly disappointed.

“Akaashi! Tell us something: who is this poem by?” Komi yanked the book out of Koutarou’s hands and began to read.

“ _Gold melts in your eyes  
__the fire burning laps at me  
__all I can see now are stars._ ”

Panic rushed through Koutarou, setting every nerve in his body on fire. He was unable to tear his eyes from Komi, too scared to find out what type of expression Akaashi wore. A silence followed, and Komi’s expression shifted to one of understanding.

“May I please have that back?”

Finally, _finally_ Koutarou peeled his eyes away and looked at Akaashi. His head was bowed, eyes hidden, but the red of his cheeks was apparent. He held his hand out and waited.

“Ah...oops.” Komi held the book out, bowing his head just as deeply as Akaashi.

“Um...sorry about that, Akaashi.” Saru stood, backing away towards his locker as he apologized. “We really didn’t -- uh, it wasn’t...just...sorry.”

“I understand. But please don’t go through my things again without asking.”

“Of course, of course.” Komi said. “It won’t happen again. Really, uh...sorry, Akaashi.”

Komi and Saru kept their heads bowed as they quietly and quickly collected their belongings. Akaashi stood in front of Koutarou for a long moment, hugging his notebook to his chest before he sat down on the other side of his bag.

“Akaashi…”

“Yes, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi collected his things as normal, placing everything into his backpack neatly. The only indicator that something was wrong was the color of his face; it hadn’t faded in the slightest.

“I went through your notebook looking for inspiration,” Koutarou admitted. “Since you said you keep poems in there -- I'm the one who did it. I shouldn’t have done that and I shouldn’t have let Komi and Saru look through it either. I’m sorry, Akaashi.”

Akaashi stopped packing his things and looked up at Koutarou. At first, his face bore the typical neutrality that Koutarou had come to expect from him, but as they looked at each other, it transformed into something softer.

“I suppose I can forgive you. So long as you managed to find something inspiring.”

Koutarou grinned at him and Akaashi returned the smile with just as much warmth as he had the day before.

“Don’t worry, Akaashi, I definitely found something inspiring.”

  
  


***

  
  


Akaashi waited for the third years in front of the gym the next day before afternoon practice. Saru waved enthusiastically as he arrived while Koutarou approached in a more reserved manner, walking with his hands tucked into his pockets and his shoulders slouched forward. Their setter was wearing his glasses again, Koutarou noticed. This allergy season must be rough on him.

“How did it go? Was your poem received well, Bokuto-san?” Koutarou didn’t answer. He stuck his hands deeper into his pockets and kicked at the ground. Akaashi looked at Saru. “Sarukui-san? did something happen?”

“No, nothing happened,” Saru assured him. “You have nothing to worry about, nothing happened at all. Because Bokuto,” he slapped Koutarou on the shoulder, “didn’t recite a poem. He refused.”

Akaashi turned back around to face Koutarou. “Bokuto-san, is this true?” Koutarou maintained his silence.

“The teacher offered to recite the poem for him but when she tried to take it, he stuffed it in his mouth and ate it.”

“Bokuto-san...” Akaashi’s face twisted in perplexity and disgust.

“ _My_ poem did well, Akaashi. Would you like to hear it?”

Akaashi nodded politely, but his face was still turned to Koutarou.

“ _An experience!  
__the taste of onigiri,  
__Yadoroku please._ ”

“It’s a haiku,” Akaashi noted.

“Yes, well, those are the pinnacle of Japanese poetry, aren’t they?” Saru winked and Akaashi’s face twisted again.

“The absolute pinnacle!” Komi declared as he appeared beside them. “And it was indeed well-received. He got a round of applause from the class.”

“I take it you won first place, Sarukui-san?”

Washio showed up then, looking agitated with an overjoyed Konoha riding on his back, whooping as they crossed the school grounds.

“No, but I'll give you one guess as to who did,” Saru said as he glared at the pair.

“I suppose I should congratulate them at some point,” Akaashi said. His attention didn’t stay on them long; it quickly turned back to Koutarou as he surveyed his face.

“C’mon, Saru,” Komi said, shoving Saru towards the gym. “Let’s get inside before we have to see them gloat anymore.”

The two shuffled inside, matching glares etched deep into their expressions. Koutarou was glad to be alone with Akaashi, but he felt that same unsettled feeling again, that made him swallow hard and caused his chest to tighten.

“Bokuto-san?” Akaashi raised his hand, pressed his palm to Bokuto’s cheek. “What happened? Were you unable to complete your poem? There’s no shame in that; some forms of expression just come easier to others.”

One distinction between their personalities, Koutarou had noticed, was how Akaashi always ran too cold while Koutarou was too hot. He was sweating through everything while Akaashi was packing on layers. With Akaashi’s palm against his cheek, that difference seemed inconceivable. His hand was the warmest thing Koutarou had ever felt, much warmer than any season’s sun could ever hope to be; it was as if a fire lived inside of Akaashi that burned just for him, and he was desperate for it. He pressed his own hand against it, turning his cheek into their palms to collect as much warmth as he could.

“Sorry I couldn’t get you your onigiri coupon,” Koutarou mumbled into Akaashi’s wrist. “I know how much you were looking forward to it.”

“I admit, I'm disappointed, but I can have onigiri anytime, Bokuto-san. Don’t worry about that.”

“I did write a poem, y’know.”

“Oh, really? It’s a shame I couldn’t hear it.” Akaashi’s eyes were soft with affection as he looked at Koutarou, rubbing his thumb across the curve of his cheek. “I would have liked to enjoy the fruits of our labor.”

Koutarou paused for a long moment. And then, “I remember it, if you still wanna hear it.”

“You do?” Akaashi gave him a small smile, and Koutarou relished in the warmth from that, too. “I would like that, if you don’t mind.”

Koutarou nodded and inhaled deeply. He opened his mouth, held it open, and then closed it again. A moment later, he opened his mouth again, but nothing came out.

“Would you like to write it down instead?”

Koutarou nodded and then grew frustrated at his own response when Akaashi pulled his hand away to dig into his backpack. He pulled out a pen and his journal, opened it to a fresh page and handed them both to Koutarou.

The blank page Akaashi offered looked too empty. Koutarou flipped backwards through the book, ignoring Akaashi’s protests, until he found the page he was looking for. On the bottom, beneath the poem already written in pencil, he scribbled his own poem in a rush and handed the book back to Akaashi.

Akaashi’s face turned a brighter and brighter shade of red as he looked down at what Bokuto had written, at where in the book he had written it.

“Saru said it was incomplete,” Koutarou explained. “Your, um, somonka, I think it was called. That it needed a pairing poem, written by...um...well…”

“I see.”

Koutarou could see the full extent of the blush across his face then, how it traveled from the tips of his ears, crossed his nose, and even creeped down his neck. The warmth in his face might have even rivaled the warmth in Koutarou’s. Akaashi looked up to meet his gaze before reading the poem aloud.

“ _Seawater is cold_  
_but the seafoam in your eyes  
__sets a fire inside me._ ”

That unsettled feeling plagued him again. Akaashi’s gaze only intensified it.

“I don’t think it’s as good as yours,” Koutarou conceded.

“Humbleness doesn’t suit you, Bokuto-san. I think it’s wonderful. Does it have a title?”

“Maybe...but I need a better look, first.”

Koutarou raised his hands and pushed one into Akaashi’s hair, lifting his glasses as he did so; the other hand smoothed over the curve of his shoulder to cup the back of his head, tilting Akaashi’s head back. With this view, he could finally see the subject of his poetry clearly.

As he stared into those eyes the color of poetry, he could have sworn they shimmered as if filled with stars, the universe, everything. Akaashi’s breath hitched and Koutarou understood the line ‘ _all I can see now are stars’_ a little better. He had, at that point, forgotten the question, forgotten why he was looking so deeply into Akaashi’s eyes, as if he needed a reason; so he simply described what he saw in front of him.

“Seafoam blue,” Koutarou finally answered.

What else he found in Akaashi’s eyes was his own reflection; the tightness in his chest, the warmth in his skin, the fire in his nerves, was all mirrored back at him. The view he saw made him realize that when Akaashi looked up at him, he saw the same stars Koutarou did.

“Bokuto-san...”

“Yes?” Koutarou’s reply was immediate, eager, desperate, as he inched closer to Akaashi.

Akaashi lifted the notebook between the two of them, gently tapping Koutarou on the forehead. “Please be mindful of our surroundings, Bokuto-san.”

“Oh.” Koutarou pulled his hands away and took a step back. “Sorry, Akaashi.”

“There are students and staff all over the school grounds,” Akaashi continued.

“I know, I know, Akaashi.”

“Also, we’re right outside of the gym as practice is beginning.”

“I _get it_ Akaashi, jeez! Just go along with me every once in a while, would you?”

“Even if you had recited your poem,” Akaashi carried on as he returned his notebook to his bag, “you wouldn’t have won. Your last line should have been five or seven _on_ ; instead, you wrote six.”

“Akaashi,” Koutarou huffed as he shoved his hands back into his pockets. “Really...your timing...sucks.”

As soon as the journal was tucked away in his bag, Akaashi reached forward and brushed his hand against Koutarou’s arm. He looked down, watched as Akaashi’s hand snaked across his arm, disappeared into his pocket; he felt his own hand be squeezed, and everything he had felt moments ago returned tenfold. In a blatant attempt to aggravate Koutarou’s heart further, Akaashi leaned forward until his chin was perched against Koutarou’s shoulder and his cheek pressed against his neck.

“Let’s get onigiri after practice,” Akaashi said.

“Alright,” Koutarou breathed out. “As long as it’s not Yadoroku. I couldn’t stand seeing those two gloat all night long”

Akaashi shook his head before pulling away. “No, it should be just the two of us.” He smiled and all of the stars in his eyes glittered.

“Right. Just the two of us.”

**Author's Note:**

> i personally do not know shxt about poetry and i hope that is plain to see through this fic.
> 
> fun fact: i spelled haiku as "haikyu" 16,000 times while writing this fic.
> 
> ty for reading! hmu if u wanna on tumblr or twitter @boomairspike


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